Non-Fiction

There once was a boy named Max. Not just an ordinary boy, but a boy who could fly.

As your elder’s trunk snapped, you turned and ran, like a terrified child unsure which way the sky was falling.

I remembered you on stage in Montreal with your guitar. How could you have picked up that gun?

My uncle once brought me fishing at his gun club, another family conspiracy to masculinize me. We were deep in what some locals call Swamp Yankee territory…

We are in my girlfriend’s apartment in Lawrence, a room of white walls and carpet crisscrossed with fresh vacuum trails…

Dark hair matted to the little girl’s head. Her lips were dried and cracked; her eyes sunken. Despite her olive-toned skin, she was pale.

I feel safe and warm, and I drift to sleep with the smell of apples, sugar, and butter gently filling my nose.

My father puts his hands on my shoulders. I haven’t seen him in ten years, but he looks good.

The city of Page sleeps as I slide my leg over my motorcycle. The sun crowns over the horizon and sets the desert aglow.